


The One Is Not A Hobbit Concept

by meh_guh



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14471385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meh_guh/pseuds/meh_guh
Summary: Bilbo is Bofur's One. He was also Thorin's One. Bofur knows his place, but now that there's peace and Bilbo's gone back to the Shire, he can't help but follow.Even if there's no hope, Bofur is used to disappointment.





	The One Is Not A Hobbit Concept

**Author's Note:**

> The fanon that dwarves have a One True Forever Love always made me picture the Company as a conga line of unrequiteds.

'This is a _bad_ idea,' Bifur growled, Khuzdul syllables echoing around Erebor in a way Westron ones just didn't, but he helped Bofur on with his pack anyway. 'Times might be changing, but he was _Thorin's_ and I do not think you should break that taboo.' 

Bofur gave his cousin an easy grin. 'A taboo's just a reverse custom, and customs are just customary.' 

Bifur's lips tightened. 

'Aye,' Bofur looked away. 'Never fear; I've no intention of pressing my suit. I just need to be near him.' 

Bifur glanced across the empty hall towards the Company's chambers, then clapped a hand on Bofur's shoulder. 'Yes. But I _will_ worry. It's a bad thing when hearts are misaligned.' 

Bofur thought about Dwalin's hollow eyes and the way he kept slipping away to Thorin's tomb and he shivered. It happened a lot more often than Dwarves liked to think about, one heart fixing on another with no return of affections. But it still wasn't _common_. 

'We've done all we can,' Bofur butted his forehead next to Bifur's scar. 'And I'm not suited for court life. Well, maybe as jester, but apparently that sort of thing would be beneath the dignity of a decorated hero. If Bilbo won't have me, I'm sure I can find work making toys somewhere. And now Azog's gone and that elf-king's calmed himself, it's a simple matter to travel back here...' 

Bifur snorted and gave Bofur a shove towards the gates. 'Get going if you don't want someone more sensible than me deciding to sit on you until you see sense.' 

Bofur adjusted his hat, gave his cousin another grin, and went to find his One. 

**** 

Without rampaging orc packs, giant spiders, hungry trolls, an urgent quest and all the rest of it, the journey between Erebor and the Shire was a remarkably pleasant walk. 

Bofur stopped in every tavern he passed to listen to the boastful stories of Men and share some of his own. He whittled toys from fallen branches, handed them to whichever bright-eyed child he saw after finishing them. He sang to himself as he walked and resolutely did not plan what he would say to Bilbo when he arrived. 

The land had been bright and green the whole way, but when Bofur crossed into the Shire he had to rub at his eyes. He'd never seen anything so lush as the Shire in late Spring; it was enough to make him feel entirely out of place. 

After standing gobsmacked long enough that butterflies started fluttering into his face, Bofur shook himself, adjusted his pack and clomped towards Bilbo's front door. 

It was only after he'd latched the gate behind himself that Bofur paused and looked down at his sad and travel-stained state. 

'Bless me,' he muttered. 'I'd best return to that inn and clean up; he won't want me tracking half of Arda into his neat little home!' 

Bofur turned to hie off to the little inn he'd passed, but before he'd even set his hand on the gate's latch the door behind him opened. 

'Bofur?' Bilbo called, then there was the patter of his feet against his garden path. 'Bofur, 'pon my word! Why are you running away before you even get here?' 

Bofur turned and gave Bilbo a sheepish smile. 'I'd been thinking to go find a wash house to clean up. I don't want to drag my filth inside your home again when you've doubtless only just sorted yourself out.' 

Bilbo fisted his hands and placed them on his hips, glaring up into Bofur's face. 'What a thing for you to say to me! I'll have you know my hospitality is up to far worse than a little road-dust, Master Bofur!' 

In the face of such determination, Bofur was helpless to do anything but cave and follow Bilbo into the cosy little hole. 

Bilbo led him further down than Bofur had gone that first night, past row upon row of doors, then he waved Bofur into a bright and airy bathroom. 

'You may be a tight fit,' Bilbo gestured at the hobbit-sized bath. 'But it should do to clean up a little! I'll just fetch the matches to start the brazier.' 

He really shouldn’t be surprised, Bofur told himself as he scrubbed at a particularly hardy smudge with Bilbo’s largest pumice. For all his particularness, Bilbo was and always had been a first-rate host. Why, he’d fed a dozen dwarves and a wizard with very little in the way of complaint and nought in the way of explanations.

When he’d soaked and rinsed twice over, Bofur declared himself as clean as was reasonable. Bilbo had left a robe and had spirited Bofur’s clothes away hopefully to be cleaned but possibly to be burned. The robe was hobbit-sized, and prone to gaping as well as flashing rather more leg than seemed seemly in the Shire, but Bofur reasoned that he was in a private house and anyway Bilbo had seen _everyone’s_ wares by the time they’d hit Rivendell.

‘Ah,’ was what Bilbo greeted him with when Bofur emerged, damp and clean. ‘Yes, I’ll drop in on Gammer Bracegirdle tomorrow.’

Bofur blinked, halfway through redoing his plaits. Bilbo was _blushing_ and staring resolutely at the wall.

‘Aye?’ Bofur twisted the last few strands together and tied them off. ‘Should you like company?’

Bilbo made a choking sound, like something halfway between a laugh and a scream. ‘That won’t be necessary, Master Bofur. You just rest after your long journey. _Without_ going outside until I’ve had your clothes cleaned, if you please.’

‘I’ve nowhere to be,’ Bofur agreed, mildly amused at this primness. ‘I can hide my shocking dwarven form if you need.’

‘Oh, no-’ Bilbo protested, politeness automatic and as hilarious as ever. He glanced over to see Bofur’s grin and straightened his shoulders. ‘Well, yes. I’d as soon not explain naked dwarves in my garden to the Proudfoots or the Sackville-Bagginses _if_ you don’t mind. I’ve only just got my mother’s pouf back from Fastolph Proudfoot and I’d rather not give them grounds to gossip any more than they already are.’

Bofur felt his smile soften and he dug his pipe out of his pack. ‘I’ll do as you bid, Master Baggins. Whatever you’d have me do or not, you need only let me know. Have you a pinch of pipeweed? Mine’s in a sorry state after the rain last week.’

Bilbo twitched towards his larder, the reflex to accommodate a guest obviously too strong to resist; it about bypassed thought, Bofur thought with a grin.

He returned with his own pipe and a lovely carved container filled with sweet-scented weed. Bofur took a grateful pinch and thumbed it down, tilting his head towards the other armchair. ‘Join me?’

Bilbo chuckled and leaned forward to stick a piece of kindling in the fire, passing it to Bofur before he settled into the chair. Bofur took a leisurely pull of his pipe as Bilbo prepared his own smoke before passing the light.

They sat there, companionable silence broken only by the occasional pop of the fire until Bofur had smoked through two entire bowls. He chanced a glance over at Bilbo and found the hobbit almost asleep; his chin on his chest and eyes only barely open.

‘Would you look at the time!’ Bofur exclaimed, knocking his upended pipe against the grate and grabbing the poker to bank the fire. ‘Why, I’d best to bed or I shan’t get my beauty rest!’

‘Hrmph?’ Bilbo started, blinking adorably. ‘Oh! Yes, oh, I’m sorry! I haven’t shown you your room, or set a brick to warm the sheets!’

Bofur caught Bilbo by the forearm as he started past him. ‘No need to fuss, Master Baggins. ‘Tis a mild night and I’m weary enough to sleep on a pile of old cabbages if I had to.’

‘Well,’ Bilbo straightened, but did not knock Bofur’s hand away. ‘I think I can do a little better than _rotten brassicas_.’

Bofur set his pipe down on the mantle and stood up, tugging the inadequate robe into as much modesty as he could. ‘After you.’

Bilbo gave him a quick, but warm smile and stooped to light a couple of candles from the coals. He handed one over and led Bofur further into the hill than he’d yet been.

‘I’m there,’ Bilbo pointed at a doorway two further down than Bofur’s, with a crimson curtain obscuring the room. Bofur’s room had a cheery yellow curtain, heavy cloth that would obscure sight and sound, but allow easy passage to even the most hungover or sleep-befuddled of dwarves. ‘Should you need anything.’

‘Grand,’ Bofur pulled the curtain aside to see a tidy room with all the usual hobbit comforts in view. ‘I’ll see you in the morning?’

‘Yes,’ Bilbo yawned, one hand delicately covering his mouth. ‘Oh dear. Goodnight, Master Bofur. Sleep well.’

Bofur slipped into the room, listening to Bilbo’s soft footfalls retreating along the hall and the faint rustle of the bedroom curtain admitting his passage. There was a colourful quilt on the bed; a little low for dwarven tastes but surprisingly large. Possibly hobbits had forgiving attitudes to sharing blankets, Bofur mused. Or perhaps they simply liked the room to shift about during the night. Bilbo had certainly been a restless sleeper throughout the quest, though Bofur had attributed that to nerves.

There was a small table beside the bed, with a dish perfectly sized to hold a candle. Bofur set his light down and pulled the quilt back, ready to collapse on the soft linens when something under the bed caught his eye. He knelt down, pushing the sheets away to reveal a chest; probably heavy by hobbit standards but light to a dwarf. He tugged the chest out far enough to lift the lid and found a spare set of linens matching the ones on his bed. Bofur chuckled at the ordinariness of it, pressing his hand into the soft material only to find a strange resistance.

Under the sheets lay a set of chainmail, the work finer than any Bofur had seen outside the armoury at Erebor. It was soft under his hand, and after a moment he realised it was the mithril shirt Thorin had given Bilbo before their argument. He gasped, tracing the workmanship of the links, the diamonds adorning the collar. Bilbo had always seemed a little embarrassed by the token, buttoning his waistcoat over the gleam of the quicksilver as soon as Thorin had stepped back.

There was another piece of cloth under the shirt, providing a barrier between the treasured gift and a mess of gold coins and loose gemstones it took Bofur a moment to recall. The troll hoard from before even Rivendell. He’d helped Nori and Gloin bury such a treasure, the three of them dedicated to the quest but not willing to trust in its success yet.

Bofur sat back on his ankles and smiled down at the treasure. Bilbo must’ve collected it on his way back, the clever little hobbit realising that with the vast treasury of Erebor recovered at last the rest of the company would have little use for smoke sapphires and clipped coins from kings long buried. The jewels were worth several times what Bofur had ever seen before the quest, but as nothing compared to the recovered riches.

‘And still as much as when we buried it,’ Bofur murmured, laying the linens and the mithril shirt reverently back in place. ‘Life in the Shire is not so expensive, it seems. Well, I feel a bit better about you not taking fair recompense when you left, Bilbo.’

Overcome with a sudden wave of fatigue, Bofur kicked the chest back under the bed and shuffled under the covers. He had just enough energy to blow out his candle before he was deep asleep, smiling and finally where he wanted to be.

****

He woke to the smell of bacon drifting through the room and a bright, cheery light spilling around the door curtain. Bofur grinned up at the ceiling and stretched, feeling better-rested than he could recall ever being. He spent a few moments glorying in the feeling before his stomach made a loud protestation.

Laughing, Bofur threw the covers back and padded down the hall towards the kitchen, tugging the robe straight as he went.

‘Good morning,’ he announced himself to Bilbo’s back, eager stomach noting the pile of fluffy scones on the sideboard. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘Morning’ Bilbo said, poking a spoon at the pan of bacon and (Bofur sighed happily) mushrooms. ‘Could you carry that through to the parlour?’

“That” was the plate of scones and a jolly little teapot, radiating warmth and a lovely strong smell of tea. Just the thing for a lazy morning meal, Bofur thought as he set his burden down on a couple of Bilbo’s mother’s doilies. Moments later, Bilbo followed with plates laden with bacon and mushrooms and roasted tomatoes, fat sausages threatening to roll off the rim.

‘I’ve only two eggs left,’ Bilbo said apologetically, setting the heavenly plate in front of Bofur. ‘I’ll put an order in for more with Mrs Underhill this morning.’

‘A finer meal I have never seen,’ Bofur said, putting his nose close to the rising steam to breathe in. ‘Ahh, we were fools indeed to rush out after only one meal. If Bombur had had his way, we’d not yet have set out!’

Bilbo snorted. ‘If Bombur and the rest of you had stayed an entire year in my smial, There’d be no supplies this side of Bree. You realise you ran through three months’ worth of food in one night?’

‘Ahh,’ Bofur gave Bilbo his cheekiest grin. ‘We’d have worked out some arrangement with the farmers and suchlike. Dwarves can be persuasive when we put our minds to it.’

Bilbo laughed, pouring tea the colour of Bofur’s boots, _just_ the way he liked it. ‘That you are. That you are indeed.’

After the incomparable pleasure of a leisurely breakfast cooked by his beloved One (no matter if the other side of the relationship was friendship alone), Bofur retreated to the sitting room under Bilbo’s strict instructions to stay within the hole until his return.

He had fetched his favourite knife from his pack and amused himself carving idly at a lump of firewood, a dragon taking shape under his fingers. Perhaps it could guard Bilbo’s little trove, Bofur thought with a grin.

The sun was streaming in through the window by the time Bilbo returned, carrying a bundle of blue cloth. It turned out to be a light pair of trousers and a tunic, dwarf-sized and clearly hastily assembled.

‘Gammer Bracegirdle should have something more substantial tomorrow,’ Bilbo said, once again averting his gaze from Bofur’s legs. ‘And your other things should be dry by this afternoon.’

‘Grateful as I am,’ Bofur said, frowning a little at the gauzy outfit. ‘I don’t need new clothes. There’s years of wear left in mine.’

Bilbo made an exasperated noise. ‘I know things are different on the road, Master Bofur, but as long as you are my guest you shall have at least one to wash and one to wear. I couldn’t _face_ the shame of-’

‘But I _have_ one to wash and one to wear,’ Bofur interjected with a grin. ‘I just haven’t got around to the washing part in a while.’

‘Hence Gammer Bracegirdle’s trouble getting your things clean,’ Bilbo said sternly. ‘You are my friend, Bofur, and you’ve had a long, hard journey. Let me be a good host.’

Bofur bowed and retreated to his room to don the strange clothes. He looked right odd, he was sure. And the material might cover more of him than the robe, but there were unsettling breezes around his nethers still, rather like being naked and clothed at the same time. When he emerged, Bilbo smiled and led him out into the warm sun, ushering Bofur onto a smooth bench beside his front door.

‘There,’ Bilbo said, handing Bofur’s pipe over, already packed with the mellow pipeweed Bilbo favoured. ‘In a while we’ll have elevenses, I’m sorry to have skipped second breakfast, but arranging things with Gammer Bracegirdle took longer than I’d expected.’

He lit a match, applying it to his own pipe before holding it out for Bofur. He sat back with a pleased moan and stared up at the clouds drifting past and blowing out neat little smoke rings. Bofur puffed thoughtfully at his own pipe and took advantage of Bilbo’s distraction to study him.

Bilbo looked very much like he had that first night, so long ago. He’d regained the weight he’d lost on the quest, to Bofur’s relief, and the pinched unhappy look from the last few weeks was entirely faded. Bilbo looked content, and it gladened Bofur’s heart to see.

‘Why have you hidden the troll hoard under your spare bed?’ Bofur asked eventually. ‘Tis nothing like the treasures at Erebor, to be sure, but it seems right strange to keep it under the spare linens instead of on display.’

‘On display?’ Bilbo blinked and rolled his head to stare at Bofur like he’d suggested trying to ride a warg. ‘Have that grotesque, ostentatious mess out in the _open_? I’d never be able to have guests over again!’

Bofur felt the laugh start around his toes, almost knocking him off the little bench. Bilbo had hidden a king’s ransom under spare linens not to keep it safe from burglars but because he was embarrassed to put it on display.

‘Hobbit tastes are different to dwarven ones,’ Bilbo sniffed, lips twitching as he fought off his own grin. ‘And anyway, my smial was completely decorated _before_ the quest, and I see no reason to redo what has been so well done already.’

Bofur thought about the cheery, well-cared-for wood paneling and the pretty little paintings adorning Bilbo’s home.

‘Aye,’ he gave Bilbo a friendly nudge with an elbow. ‘It’s a grand home already. No need for gaudy baubles.’

Bilbo flushed with pleasure and returned his attention to his pipe, eyes closing as he puffed.

Bofur finishes his pipe distractedly, his attention kept slipping back to Bilbo’s serene smile despite his best intentions. He _would not_ press his suit, he told himself again. He would enjoy Bilbo’s friendship and keep himself under control, not make the hobbit uncomfortable with unwanted advances.

No matter how tight his chest felt, seeing Bilbo smiling and carefree at last.

****

The day passed in a pleasant, leisurely pattern of meals and lazing about under the bright Shire sun. Bilbo told Bofur of the most recent scandals (his year-long disappearance with a pack of rowdy dwarves was set to remain in the top spot for a while, Bilbo said ruefully) and Bofur told him choice tales of foolish dwarves and men he’d encountered on the journey.

Bofur’s tale of Bombur’s childhood attempt to raise a secret pig in his bedroom was interrupted by the jangling of Bilbo’s front doorbell. Bilbo put down his teacup, wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and bustled off to answer it.

This was a grand way to spend his time, Bofur thought, sipping at his tea. Whiling away the days with his One, even though their hearts were misaligned. Bilbo’s friendship was a precious thing and Bofur was very glad to have it.

‘Well!’ Bilbo said, returning with a large bundle. ‘Never let it be said that Gammer Bracegirdle skimps on a favour! She’s made you two entire sets of clothing as well as washing your original kit.’

‘Bless me!’ Bofur scrambled upright to relieve Bilbo of his burden. ‘This is too much by far, Master Bilbo! I’ll start putting on princely airs if you keep spoiling me so!’

‘Careful, Master Bofur,’ Bilbo laughed, picking his tea up to sip. ‘If you keep complimenting me so I’ll start to suspect you of having _intentions_.’

Bofur couldn’t help flinching at the accusation, and he saw Bilbo slowly lower his cup again, a small frown blooming.

‘Have I misread you?’ Bilbo said, tone careful. ‘I-’

‘I’m sorry,’ Bofur blurted out, clutching his bundle of new and old clothes tight to his chest. ‘I’d never _do_... I know my place, and I’d not touch a hair on your head, you must believe me! I know you’re Thorin’s, I would never-’

‘What do you mean _Thorin’s_?’ Bilbo said, sounding shocked enough that Bofur looked up at him.

‘It was clear to everyone,’ Bofur swallowed. Perhaps this was some strange hobbitish custom, for courting to be entirely secret until the handfasting. He gentled his voice. ‘That you were Thorin’s One. If he’d lived, you’d now be his consort, and I am right sorry you were robbed of that.’

‘No, sorry,’ Bilbo looked almost offended. ‘His _consort_? Was I to get a choice in the matter, or had you all decided to chain me to Thorin’s bed?’

‘What?’ Bofur stepped back, losing his grip of the bundle and letting it fall to the floor. ‘ _No_ , but you were his, and it was clear that your hearts were aligned-’

‘He was my _friend_ , Master Bofur, and I loved him as I love the rest of you,’ Bofur had never thought the poetical language of men was anything more than the foolishness of youth, but he was ready to swear he heard his own heart breaking at that declaration. The faint hope that perhaps Bilbo’s resistance to his assumption and his quiet teasing had meant Bofur had a sliver of a chance dying. ‘But he made no advances and I would not have accepted them if he _had_.’

'It wasn't the time for paying suit,' Bofur agreed, and it took everything he had to keep his voice steady. 'But had he survived the battle, Thorin would have claimed you.'

Bilbo's mouth dropped open and his hand flew to his lips. 'You're not saying he would have _forced_ me?!'

'No, I-' Bofur broke off, suddenly remembering the violence in Thorin's face after they'd retaken the mountain…

But no, if Thorin had not lost himself when he had been that far in the clutches of the dragon-sickness, then he would _never_ have done it once he'd recovered. And the Thorin Bofur had followed into the fray had been wholly himself once more.

'No,' Bofur shook himself. 'Thorin would never have forced you where you would not go willingly, but his claim would have been made and all the resources of the House of Durin been bent to wooing you.'

Bilbo went red and stomped his foot. 'And _still_ , Master Bofur, I would have refused him!'

Bofur managed a smile. 'That mithril shirt under your spare bed would have been but the first of many betrothal gifts, had Thorin not fallen. Even so steadfast and respectable a Hobbit as your good self might eventually have been swayed.'

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed and he stomped over to glare up at Bofur. ‘I am no tween maid, Master Bofur, to be swayed from my own mind by baubles and sweet talk.’

‘My apologies,’ Bofur bowed his head, ashamed. ‘I meant no offence, but Thorin was right hard to resist in anything he set his mind to, and in matters of the heart dwarves are famously persistent.’

Bilbo breathed out, hard. ‘The ways of dwarves are different to the ways of hobbits. I thought I had accepted that, but apparently there are still surprises to be had.’

Bofur stooped to pick up his clothes, keeping his head bowed. ‘I am truly sorry. I’ll leave at once.’

‘What?’ Bilbo laid a hand on Bofur’s forearm, soft fingers curling into the wiry hair there. ‘Don’t be absurd, just because we had an argument-’

‘I’ve insulted you gravely,’ Bofur shook his head. ‘I don’t know how hobbits arrange their affairs of the heart, but I’ve made a right hash of everything for a dwarf.’

Bilbo sighed. ‘I don’t want you to leave, Master Bofur. I’d very much like you to stay, in fact.’

There was something in Bilbo’s tone, Bofur thought, hope rekindling. Something wistful and kind.

‘I’d very much like to stay,’ he choked out, trying desperately to keep a hold of himself. ‘Perhaps… perhaps you might tell me how hobbits arrange these things?’

‘If _you_ tell me how dwarves do,’ Bilbo replied, his grip on Bofur’s arm tightening a little. ‘Why were you so certain Thorin would persist? I’ll take you at your word that he had… intentions, though I find it a little hard to credit. A hobbit whose paramour wasn’t interested might sulk a little, but he’d soon enough change his target.’

Bofur found himself blinking again. That sounded rather like the way men seemed to arrange their affairs. He placed the bundle of clothes on the end of the table and turned to the fireplace.

‘I… Dwarves love but once in their lives,’ Bofur stared at the cheery little fire, wishing for a calming smoke. ‘We call it the One, though sometimes hearts are misaligned. It’s not that Thorin would have pressed you where you did not wish to go, but you were the only possibility for him. And he was not very good at relenting on any course.’

‘Oh,’ Bilbo shifted a little closer, sliding his hand down to grip Bofur’s calloused fingers. ‘We come from very different peoples, don’t we?’

‘Aye,’ Bofur turned to smile at Bilbo, curling his fingers around Bilbo’s. ‘Would I be right in thinking you’d look kindly on an old toymaker’s attentions?’

‘You would,’ Bilbo said, and Bofur felt his heart speed its pace. ‘Hobbits might not have a One, but Bagginses are naturally steadfast. Have I told you how very glad I am that you chose to follow me here?’

‘Not half so glad as I am that I found the courage,’ Bofur gave Bilbo’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I love you, Bilbo, and I’ll love you as long as you’ll have me.’

Bilbo smiled up at him. ‘I fancy that will be a good long while, Bofur. But first, I believe it is time for supper.’


End file.
